Looking at the Stars
by tarajcl
Summary: Set in Armada. A million years before coming to Earth, a hungover private Jetfire lies in a gutter and angsts. Chapter 8: All your grumpy veterans are belong to us.
1. Colourblind

Jetfire-angst. Because I was bored. Takes place before Armada, before Jetfire was made Second-In-Command, during his earlier days back on Cybertron. Sorta-ties in to my other fics, though not strictly necessary to read 'em. Surge is an energy enhancing drug that often becomes addictive to new recruits. That's pretty much all you need to know.

Disclaimer: HASBRO owns Jetfire. Jetfire's past and screwy little mind are all mine, baby! cackle

Thanks to Skins Thunderbomb for beta-ing. ((bows))

Looking At The Stars

The back alleyways of Iacon were not a sparkling tourist trap at any time of the day. However, at night, when Cybertron's pink-grey sky lost what light it had and turned to deep black, it was often difficult to distinguish between some paint-and-Primus-forsaken dump outside a bar and the glittering, majestic towers that littered the city's skyline.

In Jetfire's opinion. Jetfire's drunken, semi-conscious opinion.

The white mech lay on his front, arms splayed apart and stared dully at the wall facing him. It was a depressing affair, even by the war-torn Iacon's low standards. Riddled with cracks, singed with laser-fire from those who couldn't keep their fury inside the bar. A reddish stain of spilt high-grade streaked over the ground.

_What a waste_, thought the flyer unfeelingly.

This was not the lowest moment of his life. Not even close. But what made it particular sour in his mouth was the drug-induced realization that he could not, in fact, quite remember what the lowest point in his life had been. Several moments had suggested themselves, but not one was he able to pinpoint as the absolute worst. They gelled together in the electric haze, parading across his memory like some ghastly thing from a swamp. All he could be absolutely sure of was that this was not the worst one.

Pretty close, though. Probably.

The come-down was never the worst part, mused a small part of his mind. This he was also sure of. What was worse was the initial rush, the racing of artificial power through his circuits as artificial energy took him and his mind dissolved into sugar. What was worse was feeling his mental processes breaking apart, consciously witnessing the loss of control for the sake of-what? Fleeting pleasure?

Not pleasure. 'Surge', that was its name, never caused any sensation he could identify with pleasure. As the effect took hold there was…excitement, yes. Confusion. Exhilaration, but it was sobbing exhilaration, sure in the knowledge of what the twenty second escape, twenty second high would cost him.

This. This alley, this moment, this ache all through his systems, this pounding head.

He turned his attention elsewhere.

Cybertron's pollution-darkened sky was a deep, enchanting pink during the day. Here and there would be traces of grey smoke, signifying more noxious fumes that flyers did best to avoid. But at night, now, the clouds were replaced with eerie, purple monstrosities, looming like dragons again the backdrop of a pure night sky. It was this he tried to focus on now, instead of the clouds.

Focus itself was a difficult task. His mind lay in groaning fragments, and trying to pull it back together only succeeded in turning the fragments into a screaming whole. Nonetheless, he tried anyway, regardless of the immense, sweeping agony, suddenly desperate to get a grip on something real, something stable.

Pain stabbing regularly through his head, he looked up and saw stars. A smile crossed his concealed lips, hidden behind the ugly mask contraption he had fixed onto himself. His optics lightened slightly, losing some of their dull, untargeted fog. Ah, that was better. Good. Good, that was good, yes, that was fine. Mighty fine that was. He could see the sky, black and black and simple, he could see the tiny points of light that dotted it. Stars, gazing down at him, stars, safe in the pure black heavens, stars, lost in the dark. The idea appealed to him, with a head full of Surge and bright neon glass.

_Wish I was flying._

Oh, to be up there. To be soaring through it, surrounded by unquestioning heaven and heaven's own lights. That would be nice. Really nice. His wings felt like lumps of clay and his systems were nowhere near up to the task of flying, but suddenly he felt rather inclined to try.

A face appeared to block the view, much to his disappointment.

Jetfire blinked, wincing at the pain this caused in his sensors, and almost cried out at being denied his stars. Instead, he adjusted his gaze slowly to the face itself. The silver mask was the first thing apparent, and then the optics-golden, like his own- then the blue…

This time he did groan, causing his damaged vocals to protest weakly.

"Oh, Primus. Not you…"

The figure above him sighed audibly and shook its head. Then Optimus reached down and placed his hand over Jetfire's brow, feeling the overheated circuitry beneath it. The shuttle winced at the contact, and Optimus sighed again.

"Ow, quit it, dammit, that hurts…"

Optimus withdrew his hand, giving another of those irritating, mother-always-told-me-there'd-be-days-like-this sighs.

"You're a mess, Jetfire."

Jetfire knew this, knew it very well. Dimly he wandered why his friend felt the need to point it out. Feeling irrationally annoyed, the shuttle tried to manoeuvre himself upward, against his better judgement. He was becoming accustomed to raking pain, and so ignored the shrieking of his back sensors. It took trial and error, but eventually he succeeded in sitting upright. This done, he slowly tilted his head upwards and found Optimus, standing above him with his arms folded. The silver faceplate concealed most expression, yet somehow the blue Autobot managed to convey both aggravation and relief at the same time.

Jetfire transferred his gaze from his partner's glowing optics to the sky. The clouds had shifted, but it was still possible to make out a patch of utter, star-spattered black amongst the purple. Against all reason- certainly against the torturous cries of his head- the shuttle smiled. A genuine smile, if not a particularly pleasant one to look at.

"Hey, Op. How're ya?"

A third sigh was his only response, as the larger Autobot bent down and helped the sullied flyer to his feet.


	2. Hell's Gatekeeper

Eh-heh…oops. Let the record show, I was not intending to stick another chapter onto this. But then an evil little creep with a mustard-yellow colour scheme appeared in my head and demanded ficcage. So. Meet Squint. (Whatever you do, don't breath in next to him.) See the sort of trouble Jetfire gets himself into when Optimus isn't around…(set shortly after/before Chapter 1.)

Hell's Gatekeeper

Charr…

If all that was bad about the universe could be condensed and bottled and then splashed over ten and a half miles of stinking, choking, tainted-air terrain, if someone then decided to give it a name, it would be Charr.

Squint was very certain about this.

Idly he wondered why anyone had bothered to colonialise it in the first place. The entire planet was desert terrain, with only one huge, filthy city. The entire city drew its energy supplies from thin underground streams of energon, so thin that most optimists in the city were predicting them to run out in the next year or so. That said, the pessimists expected them to run out last week, and had been doing so for fifty years now, so perhaps there was hope.

Squint blew smoke from his mouth, his interior cooling systems acting as a filter for the impure smog he was busy inhaling.

Were the Great Destroyer himself, he mused, to appear hovering in the dry atmosphere above Charr, odds were good he (or possibly He, though Squint, to whom capitalization had always remained something of a tricky area) would sooner eat his own arms than start into the sprawling mass of poverty and stench below.

Wisps of acid green slunk into the air before dispersing, helping in their own little way to make the atmosphere a tad more toxic. He removed the purifier from his mouth, and looked at it reflectively.

Squint was one of those individuals who, if asked about his career prospects, would have smiled shyly and declared himself a 'humble neutral dealer of spices'. Whilst this may have been a lie filthy enough to darken even Charr's formidable skies, it was not, in fact, entirely untrue. The entire translation hung on your definition of 'humble', and, more importantly, of 'spices'.

For there were, in the universe, species who were fully capable of using chemicals so potent they could bring a city-con to his knees to add a touch of flavor to their rations. There were, in the universe, people who would think nothing of throwing back unstable fuel cells laced with radium in between lunch breaks. And, if your definition of 'spices' included energon so highly-refined, so carefully tainted and so skillfully laden with intoxicants that only with years of training could you even touch it without special equipment, then…in_ that_ case, Squint was definitely a dealer of spices.

If you tended slightly further towards the truth, however, you could also say that he was a small-time high-grade merchant with the moral fortitude of a cockroach. It all, really, depended on definition.

The small metal purifier chinked against his chin as he jammed it back between his lips and took in its fumes.

One thing you could say about him was that he was completely unbiased. Autobot or Decepticon, faction was of no importance. Things were far more profitable that way.

Currently, Squint was waiting. Were one to look at matters on a larger scale, he was also on the verge of striking gold via a new and potent creation of his own-'Surge', he called it, a nasty little number with the ability to send any mechanism's mainframe straight into the Inferno and out again.

On a small scale, however, he was waiting.

He heard the shuffling of feet, and smiled. He would not have to wait much longer.

Flying in Charr was not so much illegal as impossible. If you were very, very good-good enough to avoid the smoke, the fumes, the high and unpredictable architecture-…if you were _that _good, you could do it. But it you had to land, sooner or later, then you could pretty much depend on finding a whole host of smiling faces waiting for you on the round. Smiling faces, with large, unpleasantly sharp instruments in their hands.

And your death wouldn't be recorded as cannibalism. There weren't any authorities around to record it. Instead, you would be…recycled. Merchants were very neat that way.

The entire city, Squint thought, had had time to go a little bit mad. One of the signs of its madness was the development of strange and lucrative superstitions. Obviously, you couldn't hunt down everyone with a set of wings attached to them. But visitors who came in flying…well, who knew what they were up to? They could be dropping bombs. Or acids. Whatever they were doing, it probably wouldn't be good. And besides, wings were far easier to pull off than any other limb, and they fetched such a high price in certain markets…

No, Squint could understand why his…friend had chosen to walk.

The shuffling stopped, and there was a soft grunt-the kind made by people who are trying to be unnoticeable, despite the fact that there was no one else in the alley to notice them.

"He_llo_, Jetfire", said Squint in a loud, friendly voice that echoed faintly off the walls. He smiled again at the way his…friend's optics flared in panic.

Meetings with Jetfire were always interesting. Profitable, too.

"Hey", muttered the taller mech.

Interesting, perhaps, because it was hard to imagine that anyone could look more out of place. On starving, murderous Charr, Jetfire looked as inconspicuous as a rat in butter.

Squint nodded, and said, "Now take off the stupid coat, please. You look like hired thug. Really, people will think I don't run an honest business."

Or perhaps, he mused as the shuttle unwillingly took off the large brown cloak, not like a rat. Perhaps more like an angel fallen on hard times. An angel who'd been made one entirely by accident, and would have felt a great deal more comfortable if he'd been outfitted with horns and a pitchfork.

He could also understand Jetfire's dislike of removing his tragic attempt at a disguise. Despite his size and seeming strength, there were plenty of watchful individuals in the city who were fully aware that, whilst wings were a profitable trophy, pretty wings were worth even more.

Squint looked him up and down with approval, moving from the wall to stand with his arms folded, a dust-coloured cowboy in a shootout.

Because it was fun, because he was a bit of a bastard and because Jetfire was so much more manageable when he was uncomfortable, Squint said, "The mask too, please."

Jetfire blanched.

"No. Forget it."

"Really, Jetfire-…"

"Can we just get this over with?"

"Come now-…"

"Please!"

The shuttle's voice had risen high, agitation-come-fear. He was obviously more desperate than Squint had thought. He paused, let Jetfire calm down, and asked again, in a gentler tone.

"Jetfire, you do understand I've got a business to run here?"

The white transformer nodded, slowly.

"Of course you do. And you know how long I've worked to build up my image?"

Nod. Nod.

"And you must, surely, know how bad it would look if I were seen on corners talking to shady individuals in masks? Why, my business would never recover! You know that?"

Nod. Nod.

"Take off the mask, please." And he added, merriment mixed with a touch of reproach, "We're all friends here."

Reluctantly, as if he was doing something slightly repulsive, Jetfire pulled the gold triangle from his face.

Still that scar, Squint noted. He didn't wonder as to its origins-he had put it there. Once again, he wondered why the shuttle hadn't had it filled in yet.

"_Much _better", he beamed, and exhaled poison.

"Can we get this over with?" Jetfire asked again, this time in a mumble.

"Of course."

The transaction went smoothly, as it always did. They were unbothered by thieves. Those living on Charr knew far easier and cheaper ways of laying their hands on high-grade than consulting Squint. Jetfire, whose addiction made him blind and whose naiveté made him profitable, did not.

A not-unimpressive number of credit disks in his hand, Squint smiled again, and handed over a glowing canister. To most, it would have looked like an unremarkable container of energon. Unless they looked carefully, and saw that the pink liquid was just brighter than it should have been, just a shade lighter than normal. And that, thought Squint, was one of the beauties of his little creation. It was new on the market, and not easy to obtain, but it was unremarkable and cheap. Well. Cheap from some of the others, perhaps.

And after all, thought Squint, giving Jetfire a friendly farewell pat on his pretty wings, cheap was what you made it. It all depended on definition. By the standards of Jetfire, who wouldn't recognize extortion if it bit his head off, Squint was cheap.

A few minutes and a few innocent questions later-asked because Squint liked watching clients squirm as they were asked innocent questions, and because he was, at spark, a bit of a bastard-and it was over. Jetfire gave a muffled 'Thanks', and snatched up his ridiculous cloak once more. Tucking his newly-purchased canister away, the Autobot slunk off into the yellow smog of the city.

Exhaling smoke, Squint watched him go with a faint, permanent smile on his face, still trying to decide whether he looked more like an angel or a rat. Then he sighed, placed his payment safely into subspace and moved away from the wall.

A nondescript neutral figure strode out into the city-hell, humming a tune under his breath.


	3. Rose Tint My World

Oh _help,_ this thing is becoming full-length. I can _feel_ it. Eiish…okay, more Jetfire angst, more obscure cities and Cybertron-back-then-ness, and no actual development of a plot just yet. It will come, trust me. Just…not yet.

Oh, events are taking place one million years before Jetfire came to Earth…which, for my purposes, is also just a little while before Optimus becomes commander of the Autobot army, and about two million years after Megatron becomes leader of the Decepticons. (Thanks to reviewers and Skins? Jets would like to be let off the spit now. Yes, I know he deserves it, but he's starting to smell like s'mores…)

Rose Tint My World

868.0.05, Cybertronian Standard Time. The night was young, the skies were clear and the world was blue.

This was not only because of the merciless headache busy eating his mainframe alive; towers in the charmingly nicknamed Riff-Raff had been designed to please the optic. Most had been bathed in dyes and compounded with special minerals, mined from nearby planets. The ambitious designer's vision had been for Rapheal's streets to be filled with a heavenly, tourist-attracting ink-glow. Now, with the light of Cybertron's twin moons shining down on them through curtains of war-mist, they glowed a faintly disturbing azure colour that was hard to look at for too long.

The streets, at the moment, were relatively undisturbed. Technically, Raff was a war zone, but then, so was everywhere else.

He landed at Sector Nineteen, duly reporting in to the apathetic officer in charge. Technically, he should have been back with his training platoon five days ago, but who the slag cared? Two or three million years ago, it was an error that might have gotten him tried and executed, or at least put into solitary for a good week. But the war had consumed whole such petty matters as regulations. Now, most recruits showed up out of a simple lack of anything else to do. Officers hung around and hoped that their group would show, and were generally not disappointed. One thing most recruits learned early; the more dependable you were, the more certain you could be of being carried off the battlefield when both your legs got shot off.

Jetfire had a good team, at the moment. Most of them were desperately young, but Spire was tough and focused enough for the whole team, and Patchwork was easy enough to work with…

He found he just couldn't care. His head hurt too much. He should have checked with them five days ago. He hadn't. He'd been…busy.

He left the officer, and the Sector, and headed out into the relative peace of Raff. Flying over Raff was prohibited, both by high command and common sense. Sentries posted in the city's towers had orders to shoot down anything flying outside of curfew. He'd heard rumors (probably set about by bored, restricted-to-ground flyers with nothing better to do, he would admit) of sentries who would spit laser at anything with wings attached to it, Decepticon or otherwise. Whilst these were almost certainly untrue, the fact remained that the majority of the Autobot forces didn't_ like_ flyers, and the unconfined joy of soaring above the city limits could be severely tempered by the prospect of having holes blown in your wings as you did.

Nevertheless, he'd disgarded the cloak. There were some things he objected to on moral grounds, and one was being told by Squint that he looked stupid. That, and it made fast movement almost impossible. (Although, admittedly, his current hangover was making even the thought of fast movement an unkind joke anyway.)

Twin racers sped past, almost running him into the ground as he did. He stumbled back, two days without recharge taking their toll. The world spun,

_i'm dying primus i'm-_

kaleidoscope colours spiralling madly before stabilizing circuitry cut back in. He leant against a wall, grimaced, waited, watched the two cars disappear, oblivious to him. He carefully selected a few choice curses from his extensive vocabulary

_lousy, lead-witted, scrap-iron, bargain-bucket pieces of-_

and moved on.

He found himself wondering where Optimus was. The young corporal was an irritation more often than not, but he was a friend. He cared. If he were here, he'd shake his head, sigh one of his noisy sighs, then support Jetfire as he made his way to the nearest place of rest, all the while telling him in firm tones how stupid and thoughtless he was being.

A figure bumped into him in the near-darkness, weaving unsteadily.

"Hey!" Token protest. No need to start a fight, if only because he was hardly fit to fly in a straight line right now.

"Sorry", muttered the figure in response, then broke off into a giggle and dissolved into the night.

Jetfire shook his head, and regretted it. The world was full of weirdoes. He walked on.

Twenty minutes later he was situated on the outskirts of a makeshift bar. It is a fact of life that, no matter where you find yourself in the multiplex, somewhere, somehow, someone will have set up a place to become cheerfully dead to the world.

Even if the city was, technically, a war zone, some enterprising soul had still thought to stick a few chairs and tables, and secure a few cubes of high-grade, all beneath a large overhang. That the overhang was formed by two toppled buildings supported only by scrap, prayer and each other did not seem to bother any of those busy flooding out their systems beneath. The entire arrangement was centered around a large piece of curved steel, fallen from one of the towers and used as a crude bar counter. Behind it, a large, magenta individual-the only silent one, save for Jetfire-handed out energon without asking questions.

Jetfire curled up on an abandoned chair at the corner, nearest to the street. Looking left, he could see one of Raff's eerily-lit highways expanding into the night. He could hear chatter and laughter and the telling of the loud, unrefined jokes that are common to bars the universe over.

His head still hurt.

A warning siren blared, and those behind him put down their drinks with varying degrees of groaning and annoyance. Some raised their optics to the sky, anxiously waiting to see if a handful of dark-colored triangles appeared against it. Jetfire sipped morbidly from his cube, staring straight ahead. The alarms sounded frequently; from a distance, with surveillance equipment broken as it so often was in Raff, it was usually difficult for a sentry to tell the difference between a Decepticon seeker or an Autobot returning to base. He didn't move.

_Besides, if there is a raid, there's always the chance that something heavy will fall on my head and make it stop hurting me._

A rather unpleasant laugh escaped his lips.

Technically, the sirens were redundant technology. It was far simpler and far safer to send out a simple com-link alert to all those off-duty. In Iacon or Nexus, that would have happened. But the officers on sort-of-pretty, sort-of-backwater Rapheal made the mistake of taking into consideration the number of off-duty soldiers who would turn their radios off the moment they slunk off in search of the nearest bar; a frequent occurrence, mostly due to the fact that Raff was too unimportant to suffer any large-scale attacks, and most off-duties enjoyed the freedom enough to take the added risk.

Decepticon officers, Jetfire was sure, would not have made the mistake. (And it _was _a mistake; letting the incoming enemy know that you knew about him tended to remove whatever sad, sorry element of surprise you had.) They would have sent the signal out on a private wave and let anyone stupid enough to leave headquarters without their radios on fend for themselves.

The nasty little thought occurred that maybe this was why Decepticon soldiers were that much harder to kill than Autobots. It was a depressing thought, until the slightly more sensible and decidedly more sober part of Jetfire's mind pointed out that, whilst it may be true, Autobot forces still outnumbered Decepticon forces two to one any day of the vorn. Closely tailing _that_ came the gloomy acknowledgement that this had been so for the last two million years.

A minute later, the siren stopped. His buzzing mainframe weakly offered up its gratitude. A minute after that, a lower-pitched all-clear signal sounded. Those who had not already done so returned to their chatter and their drinks, their optics sometimes flitting to the sky to search for a trace of an unwanted wing or a glimpse of suspicious colour.

Once again, Jetfire found himself wondering about Optimus.

_Wonder what he's up to right now?_

He realized he was waiting to do something. Surprised, he wondered what it was, then understanding beckoned. His fingers slipped into his sub-space pocket, and he withdrew the off-pink canister he had been handed a day ago.

Squint's face and quiet smile flashed over the interior of his optics, and he glowered behind the mask.

_Lousy little slagfest. _

He glanced around furtively, to ensure that no one was watching. Not that it mattered, really. Autobot protocol oversaw a lot of things, but one thing it hadn't been able to restrain was the over-consummation of ridiculous amounts of high-grade in bars. If this was Iacon, or another of the high-command outposts, he would have thought twice. As it was-…who, really, gave a slag?

Attaching the canister to his arm, he pressed down on a button, wincing slightly as its contents were delivered into his fuel lines via three slender, diamond-tipped tubes. The sound of chatter and chaos rose behind him, and he looked left down the darkened street with bright, briefly-desperate optics. Then his thoughts accelerated and his energy levels soared and he gave up on desperation and went down into colour.

As he did, he found himself wondering, again, what Optimus was doing.


	4. Shades of Grey

Another chappie and guess who's joined in the fun? (Warning; Autobot-centric fic. I'm so very ashamed…)

Shades of Grey

Optimus Prime looked at the latest batch of recruits lined up before him, and nodded.

"You. You. And you. Target practice, tomorrow, here, early morning. Fender and Swiftwheels, I want you both on repair and maintenance duty for the next two days. Everyone else, battle simulations, tomorrow afternoon, don't be late. Go well."

Fifteen arms-with the exception of those belonging to Fender and Swiftwheels, who were looking sulkily at the floor- were raised in salute, and seventeen voices rang out through Iacon's training arena (because neither Fender nor Swiftwheels cared to push their luck that far.)

"Yes, Optimus Prime, sir!"

Keeping his face as approving and paternal as possible, Optimus watched as they trailed from the arena, most heading towards Hacksaw's for repairs. It was only when the last recruit had left that he sighed, slumped and buried his face in one hand.

He hadn't asked for the name. He hadn't asked for the respect, either. They just…came. Somehow, without his demanding it, the faces of young Autobots looked up at him with admiration and keenness, no matter what he did to change their minds.

And that wasn't the worst part. That would be the name, and all the trouble it brought him with Superior Officers (Optimus, unlike Squint, had never had any problems with capitals, and slotted them in wherever the opportunity arose.) Superior Officers, who didn't like being faced with a Still Very Junior Officer, who had, in the space of a piffling one and a half millions years, acquired a large number of adoring new recruits, a polite and calm manner of speaking, and a name that shrieked from the highest tower, "I'm Best".

It was all very trying.

"_Yes, Optimus Prime, sir!"_

Most basic training officers-even Autobot training officers- would have been grateful to receive a grunt and a resentful 'Sure', 'Okay', or 'If you say so, sir'. Optimus had encountered officers who practically glowed with delight when someone three millions years their junior gave them a sullenly muttered 'Whatever'. With him it was…different.

And _no_, he reminded himself, he _didn't_ like it in the least.

He looked up. A speck of white had appeared against Iacon's light purple-blue sky, flying far out of designated airspace. He smiled, and sighed without knowing why.

Striding through the Iacon Training Headquarters, he nodded sagely and tried not to wince at every cheerful, "Good morning, sir!"

Hacksaw didn't wear a sigil. Optimus could not understand why. The medic was, in all other respects, extremely vocal where his personal opinions were involved. Once, rumor had it, he'd crudely nailed an unfortunate soldier's foot to the floor, for making the mistake of declaring that his wings had been stuck back on unevenly. Optimus would have been certain that this was a rumor, had he not also been aware that the soldier reputed to have been involved was Jetfire. Somehow, that fact made things a little more believable.

And then there had been the incident when he'd had to rescue a recruit named Groundbomb from where he had been welded to the highest ceiling in he Headquarters, and he was sure Hacksaw had had nothing to do with that, even if he _had_ heard later that both mechs in question had had a disagreement over the existence of Primus and Groundbomb had called Hacksaw something along the lines of 'a decripite wreck who would known a welding tool from a wrench'…

But he didn't wear a sigil.

Normally, this sort of thing would have lead to Trouble (Optimus guiltily slotted in the capital 'T', comforting himself with the knowledge that it was justly deserved) with High-Ranking Officers. It hadn't, for the sole reason that even the toughest, most grizzled High-Ranking Officer would sooner gnaw off his own leg than question Hacksaw in any way at all.

Hacksaw was good at what he did. The fact that what he did ranged from life-or-death repair jobs to land-leveling demolitions escaped no one's notice.

He looked up as Optimus entered the weaponry, and scowled. His crimson-with-the-blood-of-thousands paint job made him look fractionally, in Prime's opinion, like a red dwarf constantly on the verge of going supernova.

"I haven't got time to talk to you, I'm very busy, what do you want?" he barked, as though Optimus had strode into his private med-bay during an intense and delicate operation.

Optimus stared. Politely, because he knew few other ways, he said, "Hacksaw…what's that?"

Hacksaw glanced up at the multi-cylinder hand-held missile launcher he had balanced on one shoulder.

"This? Oh, nothing."

Optimus looked at him. It was a look he had learned to use when dealing with Hacksaw, an expression of humbled pleading and genuine curiosity, mixed in with the promise that although he was, of course, lowlier than dust, he would still very much like to know what Headquarter's most inventive and cunning medic was currently doing. Please? If it wasn't too much trouble?

It was remarkable, Optimus mused, how expressive you could be with only two optics and a nasal ridge to work with.

If anyone else had tried the Look, they would have had a wrench thrown at their heads, or at least received a glare and a trademark "Push off'. But Optimus was…different.

Hacksaw glowered at him, before dissolving into a snaggletoothed grin. Leaning slightly closer to the corporal, as though they were both conspirators in some dangerous and highly illegal scheme, he said, "Wing-spies".

Wing-spies were a new Decepticon creation, designed to sneak in and gather information without being seen. One of them would have been roughly half the size of Optimus Prime's hand, equipped with wings and ten-mile range scanners. Upon finding itself cornered, a wing-spy would automatically transmit all gathered information to one of its nearby vulture-like brethren, and then explode. Spectacularly.

The only way high-command had found of dealing with them was to shoot at them from a distance. The property damage tended to be as spectacular as the explosion, but it did mean that the wing-bots couldn't send back their intelligence.

Shooting wing-spies had recently become a very popular hobby on the outer walls of Iacon. Eyeing the bazooka laid casually over Hacksaw's shoulder, Optimus felt understanding begin to dawn. He nodded.

"Be careful", he advised as the medic slipped out, earning a glare and a barked, "Mind your own business, Mr. Antennae."

Collecting up his twin rifles-with much care and affection, for he loved them as a mother loves her children-, he reflected that, useful as the men's latest hobby was, it did, perhaps, explain why Jetfire had stayed away as of late. The wing-spies had succeeded in sharpening prejudice, and sometimes it seemed almost as though those on the outer walls took a little bit too much enjoyment in what they were doing…

It was ridiculous, of course. It wasn't even as though the majority of Decepticons could fly. But the fact remained that sometimes, after one too many aerial attacks, people needed a sub-group to hate. Hating an entire species was easy, of course, but hating with especial potency a group that made up one fourth of that species did spice things up a little bit.

Of course, Optimus thought, there could be other reasons for Jetfire's recent absence. His mood decreased as one occurred to him.

He thought, and headed to the Pinnacle.

Amongst the tallest buildings on Iacon, the Pinnacle rose into the sky like a blunt needle. War damage marred its sides, great chunks taken out by years of missiles and aerial-assault. But it stood. Its original design had been ridiculously sturdy, reinforced so many times that, apart from the injuries done by war, it had survived the last six million years completely unchanged. It had, of course, been constructed during what was officially recorded as peace-time, and it was one of those buildings that made Optimus marvel at how very…prepared the architect had been for the coming war.

At the top was an open pavilion, equipped with seven mounted cannons. At any given moment, a force-field dome could be activated, safely shielding the cannons and those manning them. This, also, was a product of peace-time, although the cannons themselves were newer additions.

It was a place Optimus knew he could depend on. It wasn't quite the tallest tower of Iacon, but it had the best view.

Three million steps and one elevator ride later-it would have been three elevator rides and two steps, but equipment had been damaged in an attack- and Optimus crawled out into the weak, open sunlight of the pavilion.

He staggered over to the nearest cannon and slumped against it. His fuel-pump, despite being stuck inside a young and healthy shell, was racing as though he'd just fought off a Decepticon armada.

After a while, he said, "Do we always have to go through this?"

A quiet snigger met his audios. Despite the protests of every joint in his body, he turned around to glance over his shoulder at the smirking, winged shape leaning casually against the pavilion railing.

"Aw. Wittle Oppie's getting old."

Prime slumped back.

"Sooner or later" he said to the air, "one of us has to die. And it doesn't really matter who goes first"- he hauled himself to his feet, wincing slightly-"because either way, I'll finally be able to catch a break from you."

He looked at his friend again, smiling now. "How are you, Jetfire?"

Without even hearing the answer, he could take one look at the shuttle and make an accurate guess. He winced, not because of his joints this time.

"Not so bad. How's yourself?"

One optic flashed off in a wink, then returned to its normal shade. Dimmer than it should have been, Prime noticed. 'Not so bad'…

The shuttle was still wearing his not-quite-recently acquired battle mask. Again, Optimus wondered why he wore it. Jetfire's explanation at the time had been a snigger and a simpering, "Because I want to look just like _you_, Optimus Prime, sir." Fully aware of the adulation Optimus received from his students, Jetfire snatched every opportunity to tease him about it.

Optmus remembered thinking, at the time, that there was something wrong with the way he said it, something that made the joke fall dead.

"I'm fine."

_You're not._

The unspoken point hung in the air, assisted by an ever-so-slight stress on the 'I'.

Jetfire chuckled uncomfortably, reaching up to scratch the sensors on the back of his helmet. The gesture revealed a dent in his armor that hadn't been there when last Optimus had seen him. Noticing where Prime's optics had landed, Jetfire hastily dropped his arm.

"Uh…good."

Optimus stared at him, being sure to keep his expression far out of the hostile zone. Jetfire responded to accusations in the same way he responded to aggression; badly.

"I heard your team leader was wondering where you were", the young corporal stated mildly, making light conversation instead of making a point.

Jetfire shifted awkwardly, and Optimus thought: _Why do we always have to go through this?_

"Yeah…I was busy."

Optimus looked at him for a few seconds, aware that this would do about as much good as telling Hacksaw to take a day off.

He sighed and shook his head, giving up on any lingering hope of extracting answers from his best friend here and now. Instead, he walked over to the shuttle, folded his arms, and heaved a great sigh. Jetfire cocked his head and brightened his optics. Optimus knew him well enough by now to imagine the small _pleasepleasepleaseforgivemeI'llneverdoanythingwrongagain _smile that had appeared beneath his facemask.

"What am I going to do with you?"

"Weeell" replied the pale Autobot, a trace of his typical mischief appearing in his voice, "I guess you could always put me on repair and maintenance duty for a week."

He ducked to avoid a swipe, as they both laughed, some of the tension dissipating.

"Let's go."

Still chuckling, Jetfire moved away from the cannon to follow his higher-ranked companion. Then he winced, raised a hand to one optic and stumbled sideways, balance thrown by the sudden movement.

"Aah, dammit…"

Optimus caught him just before he fell over, trying to ignore the sudden urge to deal a good, honest clout to the flyer's head.

"What would you do without me", he muttered as Jetfire steadied himself.

"Die quickly." The reply was instant. However mud-drenched his wits were, his tongue was forever blade-sharp. "But that's if I'm lucky…"

As one, they made their way down the steps of the Pinnacle.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

AN: Yes, the wing-spies are larger, outdated versions of Laserbeak. Red's a plagiarist!


	5. Thrones

Why are Autobot ships always so darn tidy? And is that a plot I see starting to develop? Out, out damned plot!

Thrones

A figure moved through near-darkness. Weaving unsteadily, it tripped and stumbled over dead metal, the waste of the universe cluttered at its feet. Occasionally, it giggled. Occasionally, it muttered to itself. Once, it turned its head sideways to the city-glow in the distance, bared its teeth and growled.

Eventually it found what it was looking for. _Who_ it was looking for. Muffled words were exchanged. Time slipped by, evening giving way into night.

Later, he would wonder if they had been scared. None of them acted like it, but who could tell?

Information delivered, he slunk back into the shadows. As they talked, he looked again toward Iacon, looming like a wave of gold, and smiled. Right then, he wasn't scared of anything.

* * *

"Wow."

"Please don't."

"Wow-ie. That's amazing."

"Stop it."

"How do you get it so _clean?_"

Optimus liked his office. It was spacious. It had a view of the city, downwards, a view of the training arena. In other parts of the universe, it would have had a potted fern in the corner and a bookshelf neatly packed with medical journals. As it was, it had a cabinet of information disks and a small but well-equipped weapons-mount in the corner.

Above all, it was neat. Any errant speck of dust or microgram of unnecessary clutter was immediately fallen upon and treated with the sort of heartless efficiency that made Higher Officers quake. It seemed to Jetfire that all the cruel punishment and harsh discipline Optimus didn't inflict on new recruits was stored up somewhere, released only when the slightest hint of messiness invaded his sanctuary.

Jetfire, whose living spaces tended to resemble the scruffier areas of Charr after a seeker attack, shivered over-dramatically and tried to avoid touching anything.

"Just because I enjoy a relatively normal level of order…" muttered Optimus, who was used to his friend's reactions.

Jetfire started to respond, then stared.

"Is that…polish?"

"Stop. It."

"You polish your desk?"

Resigned sigh.

"I just wanna get this right. In the middle of one of the highest alert war zones on the planet, fifteen clicks from the control central of Autobot High Command with Decepticons raining from the skies every other week, you, Optimus Prime, actually take time out to polish your desk?"

"We've actually had very little Decepticon activity during the last year", commented Optimus, tactlessly changing the subject. "We think they're moving on to Nexus…"

"Optimus. You're a freak."

"Thank you for that."

Snigger.

Optimus withdrew two energon cubes from his private storage cabinet, making extremely sure that both were low-grade. If Jetfire noticed, he failed to comment. The walk from the Pinnacle to base (pausing along the way, at Optimus's insistence, to sign Jetfire in at the city roster) had given the shuttle's ill circuitry time to recover. By the time they were halfway there, Jetfire was walking more-or-less on his own. To the casual observer, he would have been unremarkable. A flyer _(hmph_), but markedly unseekerish. Averagely pleasing to look at (despite being so unpleasantly…_curvy,_ hmph, hmph). The casual observer would probably fail to notice the dim optics and slightly subdued energy signature.

Trying not to make a point of watching the other mech very, very carefully as he drank, Optimus remembered the first time Jetfire had seen the interior of his office. He'd perched in much the same position on the desk, legs folded over one another, slumped against the opposite wall with wings almost scraping the ceiling.

"_You know what this place needs?"_

"_A pest exterminator?"_

"_Shut yer mouth. A throne."_

"…_A what?"_

"_A throne! With a big fat Autobot sigil and…let's see…a really big sign right at the top, something like, 'Here sits God, a dust-repeller at his right hand'. Or maybe something simple, y'know…'Kneel, mortals, before the glory of the supreme pencil-pusher'_-..._bastard_, let go!"

The mech over whose head he had then placed a trash bucket, Optimus considered, had looked considerably better than the one currently juggling the empty-too-soon energon cube in his left hand.

His head turned at the crash, fingers instinctively tensing, mirror image to Jetfire, who allowed the cube to hit the ground. The container was too strong to crack, but Optimus found his inner soul aching to remove the taint from his spotless floor. He suppressed it, drawing his attention to the possible crisis, before recognizing the sound of a heavy, impatient fist connecting with his door.

Optimus relaxed. Knowing well the ways of those he worked with, he had become accustomed to Hacksaw's technique of knocking; namely, a brutal beating administered to the door in question, until whatever fool was behind it saw sense and opened up. Hopefully before said door was actually broken in.

Upon command, the door slid back, and a scowl with a paintjob peered in. It's optics alighted on Jetfire, and it got bigger.

"Hmph. Heard you were back", snorted the medic, as one who had just discovered the first sign of an errant cockroach infestation in his slipper, but can't quite be bothered to whip out the poison just yet.

As Jetfire began to mumble some unheard apology/greeting, Hacksaw's eye fell upon the empty cube. "Hah! Filthying up the place already, are you?"

"Hacksaw, what do you want?" said Optimus wearily. Wearily, but carefully, because he liked his limbs. Wisely, Jetfire fell silent. He also liked his limbs, despite the fact that his head was preparing itself to launch another armed attack on him.

Presented now with an individual he ranked slightly worthier of the floor-space he occupied, Hacksaw sniffed once more and refocused on Optimus. To the horror of the corporal, he smiled. Optimus had never seen Hacksaw smile. He'd heard that it had happened occasionally, generally before some poor trainee ended up welded to something, but had never seen it happen. And he'd heard, of course, that there were mechanisms who had their taste detectors cut into razor-sharp triangles, generally for the sometimes-popular, feral _organic_ effect it produced. He'd never seen that before, either. Jetfire, he noticed, stood transfixed.

Horrible teeth gleaming, Hacksaw folded his arms and declared to Optimus, "Saw someone looking for you."

"Oh?" Beside him, Jetfire continued to stare.

"Not him." Hacksaw made a rudely dismissive gesture towards the flyer and nodded at Optimus. "You. Heard there's been some…trouble."

Another horrible smile. It often seemed to Optimus that the medic was rather overly fond of trouble.

"I don't suppose you caught his name?"

Snort. "What do I look like, eh? Your secretary? Looked like a Messenger."

"Ah."

Messengers were, by technical definition, an elite network of spies and stealth fighters, set up to transport information through the roughest terrain and across the most dangerous battlefields. In reality, they generally tended more towards being High Command's personal carrier pigeons. Psychopomps, they also brought the latest lists of the dead, although rarely from any of the more obscure cities, and never from anywhere off-planet. Dislike towards Messengers soared almost as high as hatred of seekers.

As Hacksaw departed without a backwards glance, Jetfire seemed to recover slightly. He looked at Optimus curiously.

"A Messenger looking for you, huh?" he queried as the elder stooped to pick up the cube. "Nothing to do with me, I hope?"

The joke fell flat for Optimus, who constantly feared that, one day,it would be. A weak chuckle was all he could manage.

Before either could speak again, a voice flew across the base, accompanied by an emergency siren. Jetfire jumped. Optimus didn't, but made note of the state of his friend's nerves.

"_Attention! Attention! All officers to report to Headquarters' main hall! Repeat, all officers to report to the main hall immediately!"  
_

A low hiss came from Jetfire and he shook his head to shake away the pain. Optimus pretended not to notice.

"That was a Danger Three alarm", he said instead, a note of confusion in his voice. New recruits all learnt to recognize the varying alarms within a few months of arrival. Not because it was compulsory, but because it was always useful to know the difference between a Danger One (squadron of seekers attacking a reasonably important weapons factory) and a Danger Six (base overrun with Decepticons, leave now, abandon those with less than three limbs remaining). There were rumors of a Danger Seven alarm, which no one had ever heard but was said to go off two seconds before your head was ripped from your shoulderswith the assistance of afusion cannon.

"Dandy. Can I hide out under your desk?"

They entered the main hall alongside a shoal of nervous recruits, most of whom were still equipped with bright new colors that flashed brilliantly against the harsh flood lights. The main hall could accommodate up to seventy Autobots, provided that they didn't mind being packed like sardines. Looking around, Optimus noted with satisfaction that most on-base soldiers were already present. Punctuality was so important.

Up front, a grizzled, battle-hardened and distinctly worried-looking officer waited for the last stragglers to arrive. As the assembly was called to order, Optimus stared at his face. It was the sort of face that bit swords in half for a hobby and it shouldn't have been looking worried.

"Oh, this is cheerful."

Jetfire, of course. Muttering with the sort of unconscious anxiety that attacked all flyers when shoved into any room with a ceiling less than seventy feet from the ground.

"I might point out that you haven't been on active duty for over a week. Consider this your penance."

"Slag you."

Optimus opened his mouth to reply, but speech fell dead in his mouth as the officer's words flew across the room on vulture wings.

"We have just received word that Nexus is under attack."


	6. The Food Chain

Much love and cuddles to reviewers.

Yes, is short. I tired. Boring plot stuff, angst by truckload arriving next chap, promise. For now, I sleep.

The Food Chain

He observed the two of them without interest. It was easy enough to discern which one was his intended target, unless, of course, High Command had recently lost what little sanity it had left.

Longreach was a thin, elfin mechanism, and an oddity to look at. Arms, legs, neck all looked just a little bit longer than they should have. Large, fan-like protrusions stuck out his back, shoulders and lower legs. This was because Longreach was a satellite dish. And, oh, how he hated it.

Although, not for any particular reason. He hated most things on principal. Even in an Autobot command structure, there has to be one.

Another minor peculiarity were the green optics. Whilst not unheard of in an Autobot, green had traditionally been a color more favored by Decepticons. The fact that there were four of them was also notable.

Longreach was a Messenger. He wasn't too keen on that, either. Currently, his job involved bringing order to chaos. This was a pity, because it was rare to see Autobot forces in anything even approaching chaos, and he was rather enjoying the moment.

_Ah, well. All things must come to an end. _

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Jetfire paced. Optimus watched him.

Around them, the hall was in uproar. This was hardly saying much, as the Autobot definition of 'uproar' is 'any noise level exceeding that found in a mausoleum'.

"This is bad. This is _bad_."

"Yes, I think we've established that."

"This is **_bad_**."

"It's certainly alarming…"

"Nexus has been our second largest weapons deposit for the last three years. It's got the _larges_t Autobot energon mine on the planet, this is _badbadbad_!"

Outwardly, Optimus was controlled, because counteracting Jetfire's violent emotional swings tended to come as naturally as loathing did to Longreach. Inwardly, he couldn't have agreed more.

Nexus was a massive, sprawled leviathan, almost twice the size of the Decepticon capital. It was one of the oldest cities still standing after four million and a half years of anarchy. Ugly as a dead rat and with outer walls almost as thick as they were wide, attacking Nexus was an endeavor on par with hitting a lump of iron with a twig. Were it not for one small matter; the monstrous seam of pure energon which extended from the heart of the city to three miles past the walls. Whether the Megatron's Decepticons knew how far it reached was unimportant. Surveys ordered by High Command had concluded that enough errant bombs in the right places would result in Nexus being blown high enough to breach the outer layer.

Despite its obvious importance, High Command was rumored to be finding fewer and fewer officers willing to reinforce the cities ailing barricades. The fact that High Command was also rumored to sent scouts out to find the reason behind such reluctance said a certain amount for its mental prowess.

As Jetfire continued to rant, Optimus reflected yet again on the flyer's peculiarities. Despite Jetfire's… less-than-admirable habits, when he wasn't semi-conscious or hung-over, he actually made a remarkably good soldier. His leadership skills, whilst nothing to shout about, were sufficient to earn him enough reluctant respect or fear to handle inexperienced recruits. Courage he had never lacked, and tactical skills, whilst sometimes overridden by blatant impulsiveness, were there in abundance. His morality ran deep enough to satisfy enough Optimus's high standards, although the larger Autobot had serious doubts as to his friend's devotion to either the Council or the Cause.

If only he wasn't so…it made Optimus feel distinctly guilty to think it, but…silly, he stood a good chance of rising to the level of Lieutenantsome day.

"We're slagged to krell with a rusty wrench. That's all there is to it."

Moderating his language might also count in his favor, Prime privately noted.

"They've got a good defense network at Nexus", he pointed out. What had been bothering him was not the announcement of a small Decepticon army laying siege to Nexus-although that was certainly worrying enough- but the announcement that had followed it; the small city-hamlet Raphael was in much the same situation.

Which was _odd. _

Up on the podium, Higher Officers were now engaged in fervent discussion, speaking in furtive voices lest one of the unworthy lent an audio to their concerns. Before Optimus could pursue his line of thought, one of them broke away from the huddle and stepped up to the platform again. It was the grim-looking officer who had first spoken, now looking grimmer than ever.

"Attention, please", he began, because there was something built in to the spark of every Autobot that demanded it. "Officers Hook, Threadwire, Skipper, Blaster, Gridwork and Targetline to report immediately to Rapheal with their platoons to provide backup. Officers Match, Watcher, Barricade and Inferno to report immediately to Nexus. All other Senior Officers, accompany me to the command centre immediately. In Officers Hook and Gridwork's absence, the Iacon Defense Headquarters will be placed under temporary command of a substitute officer. That will be all."

Jetfire made a whistling sound.

"A sub. Slag, but we're slagged…"

"Optimism would be appreciated", murmured Optimus, watching the commanders file out. Like Jetfire, his mind was running madly over the list of sub-commanders and officers who made up the Autobot Command food chain. The majority of key mechs had just been pulled into defending Nexus, leaving behind an almost embarrassingly skeletal crew. It was not that Optimus minded operating under such circumstances, but even he itched slightly at the thought of manning a base with less than ten officers and only three hundred soldiers to spare.

"Hold it, hold it…"

The sudden note of worry in Jetfire's muttering caught his attention. The shuttle looked like a man who has just added up all the little figures and performed all the delicate little calculations and doesn't like the answer he is getting.

"Gridwork, Hook and Watcher…and Barricade…Inferno…nah, that's not right…"

"What?" he said quietly. When it came to certain things, Jetfire had a mind like a laser.

The shuttle in question raised his optics to stare at Optimus, an oddly alarmed look suddenly upon his face.

"Then…who the heck does that leave…"

"Corporal Optimus Prime?"

Jetfire yelped and spun round. Optimus rolled his optics and thanked Primus that the shuttle had not been holding a weapon.

"Are you Corporal Optimus Prime?" queried the slender, holmium-white mechanism who had appeared behind Jetfire with movements as silent as a ghost.

"Yes."

Jetfire, to Prime's eteral gratitude, said nothing. He did stare, though.

Optimus was…surprised. He had met Messengers before, but usually only to offer them directions or, perhaps, to show them around the base. He did it with the weighted knowledge that no one else would, and aware that every set of optics upon him as he accompanied a Messenger would be imagining long spikes driven into his head.

In his experience, Messengers tended to be small, willowy and equipped with a miniature armada of concealed weaponry. Generally, they had some peculiar physical asset, a gun in the centre of their forehead, or, in one case, a tail. So the fact that the creature standing before him was in possession of four optics didn't come as a shock. What did come as a shock (and a slightly worrying shock, at that) was that now one of the fabled Angels of Death was addressing him.

The Messenger squinted all four green optics at him, the way he imagined Decepticon micro-scientists observed things under glass. And, in a way, he was relieved. He had generally assumed, with a sense of fatalism that belonged to the darker recesses of his personality, that when a message from High Command did affect his life, it would be in relation to Jetfire (and would probably contain the words 'drunk and disorderly', 'missing in action', or 'awaiting trial for insubordination'.)

Finally, he said, "You're Optimus Prime, are you?" with what sounded like amusement in his voice.

More nervously now, because he had _NEVER _known a Messenger to repeat his, her or itself, Optimus said, "Yes. My name is Optimus Prime."

"What's it to you?" asked Jetfire suspiciously, having obviously noted the small double-stripe beneath the Messenger's insignia, a mark announcing to all those who got close enough who he was and what power he held. Behind the mask, Optimus winced, and wished his partner's foot had been just a little bit closer to his own.

The word's broke the visitor's concentration, and he gave Jetfire an odious look. Returning to his quarry, he issued a short, sharp nod that made him look like an avian.

His voice, when he spoke, was more formal, and slightly tinny.

"Corporal Optimus Prime, under the newly relayed circumstances, High Command has ordered that this base be placed on green alert until such time as the threat to Nexus has been subdued. With officers Gridwork and Hook no longer available for command, High Command has ordered that you will substitute for them until their return."

Longreach smiled darkly at their reactions. The target in question stood perfectly still, only the almost-to-white brightening of his optics revealing his true emotions. The winged one reeled backwards as though physically struck, jerked back upright with a sharp, electric movement and swore loud enough to attract the attention of every Autobot still left in the hall.

"M…me?"

Had Longreach been aware that he was witnessing Optimus Prime's very first stutter he would have smiled even more.

"Yes. You."

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

He was, Longreach would have had to admit, hardly much to look at. Certainly not for someone who had, supposedly, one of the most squeaky clean records yet produced by a corporal, and one of the most impressive Academy scores for the last three hundred and fifty years.

"Might I ask why I'm being allotted to the task?" Prime asked. He had calmed down impressively quickly. His ill-mannered friend's curses had run dry after a while, and were now being translated into furious pacing across the departure bay. All three had moved to watch the officers depart for Nexus, via one of Iacon's many warp facilities.

Longreach made a snorting noise he reserved only for those he considered miles and miles beneath. As this list included, basically, the entire universe, he did it quite often.

"As you may or may not have noticed, Substitute Base Commander Prime", and he observed with professional satisfaction the result this produced, "you are the only individual currently in this Sector with even two-thirds of the qualifications required for the position. Competent as the rest of the Training Officers are, your record exceeds them all, despite the fact of your"-snort-"_youth_."

The large white shuttle took a break from pacing to glare at the Messenger.

And it was true, Longreach would also have had to admit, he was young. Too young by far to be anything beyond a corporal, a position given, in the Autobot army, to those too inexperienced to make General, or even High Ranking Officer, but too good at their job to be anything less.

"Besides", he added, with a rather malicious gleam in all four optics, "you came _highly recommended_."

The fact that so many, otherwise entirely sane, Officers had suggested the young corporal had irritated him, for some reason. It wasn't, in his opinion, how the world was supposed to work.

"This isn't quite what you'd call normal procedure…", Prime pointed out, his voice perfectly level. He really was taking this rather well.

"No joke", muttered Jetfire. The Messenger ignored him.

"It's hardy difficult, Substitute Commander", Longreach commented, unable to help it. "You've only to ensure that normal procedures flow as they should until the rightful officers return to their posts. I'm sure you'll manage superbly."

"Thank you for your confidence", Prime said in a brisk, firm and utterly miserable voice. Behind him, the warp gate opened with a flash and closed with a whimper.


	7. Lay My Spirit High

Okay. On the one hand, this is really, really late. On the other hand…it's got Smokescreen? ((does the ostrich thing))

Lay My Spirit High

Optimus had been right. This was very therapeutic.

He raised the Ultra-Super Sonic Blast Cannon, the terror of Decepticons and delicate ecosystems everywhere, and fired. Half a mile away, a cloud of wing spies dissolved into cosmic dust.

Jetfire was prepared to admit it. He wasn't the planet's best close-combat fighter. Considering his mass, relative to the average seeker, this was odd. But, just as confined rooms and low ceilings made him itchy, so did numerous close-pressing bodies, all either moving to save their own lives or to take his. He had long accepted the fact that the day he found himself in battle without a gun handy was probably going to be selected as his Day of Atonement.

He had adapted. Being half a head taller than the average Autobot helped, as did his carefully thought-out method of flying into the middle of war zones with guns blazing and paint shining and confidant laughter ringing from his radio broadcaster. It didn't earn him friends-he had to rely on tried-and-trusted charm to do that- but it did send out the right message to all enemy spectators; Fear me.

It wasn't, technically, the best thought-out survival plan in the world. Nor was it reasoning that High Command would have approved of. But it did earn respect, in teaspoons, and, in an odd way, it worked. For a few, shining moments, he could convince himself that it was real, all the confidence, all the power. He was in is element, immortal, and no one could stop him. The illusion usually lasted four minutes at most, after which some less-than-dumb slagger would think to aim a few rounds to his wings and, whee! down he would go, but they were important minutes.

And for the rest, he'd practiced shooting. Close-combat fighting was all well and good, and he'd sent a third of his existence engaged in it, but when you got right down to it, a gun in your right hand trumped a blade held to the enemy's main fuel line any day of the vorn.

Recognizing where his talents lay, he'd become a very, very good shot.

He thought, _I really want to destroy something. Preferably something that looks like Optimus._

And then casually vaporized another spy.

Optimus was currently engaged in an activity he called 'discussing matters with the men'. Jetfire suspected that most of them didn't see the point in this. He certainly didn't. Especially seeing as Optimus had made a point of not inviting him to the meeting, a fact which was the source of most of his current ill-humor.

He would have been burning off his frustrations in the air. Would have, had it not been for Optimus' stern command -which, for all its sternness, looked rather more like a poorly-disguised plea- to remain within a click of the command centre. Another spy went to its premature death.

Fifteen minutes later, temper under control, Jetfire returned to HQ. He had known Optimus for the majority of his life, and was good at judging just how long it would be in any given situation before his friend needed help. Generally, the sort of help required would turn out to be therapeutic.

A hearty cry assailed his audios. A grin flourished unexpectedly on his face, and he turned to greet the approaching mech.

"Heya, Smokes."

'Hearty', in fact, summarized most of Smokescreen's mannerisms. A wide, genuine grin split the shorter mech's blue face in two. The jolly pat on the back felt more like a wallop.

"Good to see you, sir."

It was almost impossible not to like Smokescreen. Provided you were, of course, an Autobot. And a Cybertronian. And not a stranger. Or an alien. Or a criminal. And, if possible, a ground-bot. Various prejudices aside, once you wheedled your way into his good graces- provided you were an Autobot ground-plodder, this could normally be accomplished with a drink and a bad joke or two- he was as loyal a friend as could ever be desired.

Even if you fell into one of the categories that tended to incur his wroth, it was possible to win the orange mech over. Provided you tried very, very hard and didn't do anything too foreign or peculiar or un-Autobot-ish while he was looking. Jetfire suspected that he matter of his wings alone would be enough to place him into Smokescreen's Strictly To Be Avoided category, were it not for the other matter. That other matter being that he had talked the younger mechanism out of killing himself a few thousand years ago.

Friendship with Optimus helped, too. Smokescreen had been one of Prime's first pupils, and Prime's approval did a lot to earn you points.

Taking stock of the younger mech's appearance (as he was wont to do with Smokescreen), Jetfire noticed that he had gotten himself another few inches of decorative laserwork. Emblazoning one's shell with personal messages and tags had been all the rage a few years ago, until someone had pointed out how much more noticeable it made you in battle. Once rumors that the Decepticons had started a betting pool on how many tattooed Autobots they could take out in one battle had started flying, the trend died down. One or two still continued it, carving small pictures of fragments of prayer into the armor, making the lettering less obvious. Smokescreen had only ever held trace interest in the concept; apart from anything else, it hurt. But now and then, when he was feeling either particularly jovial or particularly melancholy, an inspirational quote or two would appear subtly emblazoned onto his leg or shoulder.

Magnifying the minute, Cybertronian writing on Smokescreen's left thigh, Jetfire could make out the words, '98percentof all Autobots have tried drinking high grade. If you're one of the 2percent that hasn't, carve this into your leg.'

Jetfire's quick and rather cunning subconscious analyzed the greeting, detected what was wrong with it and relayed the message to his rather slower and dim-witted conscious.

"'Sir'…?"

Smokescreen looked at him, and then the grin got wider. And then it broke into a laugh.

"Jetfire, don't tell me you haven't heard!" he chuckled heartily. "It came over the radio just a few minutes ago. Have to say, I was pretty impressed."

And then an odd, icy feeling began to gathering the pit of Jetfire's fuel tank.

* * *

The Base Commander's door was made out of reinforced titanium. Because there are members, in any hierarchy, no matter how benign, who occasionally give in to paranoia, it was also almost as thick as it was wide.

Which was the only reason it didn't splinter under Jetfire's fist.

_**"OPTIMUS!"**_

At the other end of the corridor, two member's of the base's newly skeletal crew looked up. Taking in the sight of an enormous squad commander, fists aquiver with fury, they decided that retreat would be the better part of valour, and instantly disappeared.

The com next to the door crackled and a tentative voice said, _"…Jetfire? Is that you?"_

"No, it's Decepticon Air Commander Starscream and I've come for your soul. Let me _IN_, you SLAGGER."

_"…Very well. But please try to restrain yourself."_

Something in Jetfire's neck made a whirring sound of disbelief. Closing his eyes, he paused to envisage the sky, a drink and his best friend's charred corpse hanging from a flagpole. Fervour slightly cooled, he stormed into the Base Commander's office.

The first sight of it almost drowned the rage in amazement. He had seen many offices in his life, ranging from the dank, twisted pit of horrors that was Hacksaw's and the shrine to ultra-minimalism that belonged to Optimus. But he had never seen gold edging before.

Prime's love of tidiness had already begun to sink its relentless tendrils into the room. Jetfire doubted that the holographic battle-projector plates had ever been filed with such ruthless efficiency by the previous commander.

Optimus sat hunched over the round table, his head in his hands. A trickle of pity found its way into Jetfire's breast. Then the rage came back.

"You", he hissed, and advanced like the Spirit of Avenging Death.

* * *

"Jetfire, I'm asking you as a friend. I need your help."

Hearing Optimus Prime plead was a rare and peculiar thing.

"Everyone seems to think that I'm completely equipped to handle this sort of responsibility. I'm hopelessly out of my depth! I know it's just a temporary role, but there's so many things to attend to. I can't give half the people who currently need my help a quarter of the attention they need."

He rubbed his optics, looking as though the last twenty-four hours had aged him more than the last million years of his life.

"They're all worried, Jetfire. This attack on Nexus has come completely out of the blue. And Rapheal! I was speaking to a young recruit earlier and he told me that he's got a bondmate living there! And now they're saying that we're going to be hit next! You were always far better at calming younger mechs down than me."

Jetfire's disagreements with this fact were muffled by the duct tape.

"It's not as though they've left us completely on our own. I've got several promising young soldiers on hand to rearrange patrol routes and check over the city's security. I haven't received any further word from the officers yet, but I'm sure I will soon. And I'll put in a good word for you with Commander Hook. You could do well to earn yourself a few points with the higher ups, old friend. You know that. And, who knows, we might even receive a promotion each! And you did say you wanted to take a break from squad command for a few days."

Optimus folded his arms.

"So, what do you say? And please don't start swearing this time."

He carefully removed the duct tape covering Jetfire's head. As his friend's voice was jut as loud with the mask on as it was with it off, he'd been unsure as to just where Jetfire's voice was projected from. In the end, he'd had to cover all eventualities. Which was why Jetfire's head now resembled a big, grey lollipop.

When, at last, all the tape had been removed, Jetfire grunted and said, "Okay. Fine. Whatever. Will you just untie me now, please?"

Prime's optics glowed with satisfaction. "As you wish, Vice Substitute Base Commander Jetfire."

* * *

The Decepticons had never had a High Council. They wouldn't have survived the first eight seconds.

The inactivity was beginning to get to him. He shifted from foot to foot. He polished his guns. He paced. He thought about firing some shots off at the clouds, but was told, very clearly, that this would earn him a swift death. He considered starting a fight with one of the others, but the options were limited at best. Currently, they included a small communications officer, who looked like she would be about as much fun to fight as a dead sheep, the creepy green guy who'd just been brought in, and Megatron himself. The latter was obviously out, and baiting the creepy green guy had earned him a scathing reprimand that had served only to sour his temper.

He decided to double-check the explosives instead.

Night reigned over Iacon, as it would for another thirteen hours.


	8. The Ninth Circle

A chapter with no OCs in it. Hot diggity.

Happy Valentine's Day! To celebrate, I brought Decepticons. (After all, isn't that what everyone _really_ wants?)

The Ninth Circle

Much like its back alleyways, the Scrap Metal Depository of Iacon was not very nice. Its scenery did not uplift a mech's spirits, nor did its décor inspire a new recruit to strive for greater things.

On the other hand, Optimus thought, it were cleaner than the giant communal junkyards of most major cities. That was something.

He hummed a soft little tune as he waited, and rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. A retro-rat scurried past, pausing to nibble at the polish of his wheels and squeak at him. He discreetly gave it a few drops of low-grade, glancing around as though worried someone might notice.

He disliked meeting like this. It gave the whole thing an air of…unwholesomeness, a slight flavour of skulduggery, the faintest suggestion that somehow, he was doing something Morally Wrong. He knew that he wasn't, really, but the feeling still stood.

Of course, were the rest of the Autobot army to discover these liaisons, they would certainly condemn it as Morally Wrong. Some of them would consider it morally wrong to such a degree that drawing him up before a firing squad would not be an unjustified move. This sort of knowledge often made Prime uncomfortable. He soothed himself with the knowledge that they didn't know Scavenger as well as he did. Very few people in the entire galaxy currently knew Scavenger as well as he did.

The sound of metal crunching beneath metal came from behind him, and a lifetime's worth of training swooped to the fore. He was already halfway ducked, cords tight and sensory net spread wide as a signal flare, when something _huge_ leapt from the shadows with a horrible roar.

Obeying instinct, one hand fell to his sub-space pocket, fingers straining for his all-purpose rifle…which they then disregarded, upon a moment's change of mind, and sprung upwards to grab at the clawed, shapeless monstrosity that was preparing to fall upon him.

His hand snapped around a large chunk of leg, tightened and, with the assistance of a complicated twist/kick movement that few could do without breaking themselves in two, he flung the older warrior into the nearest scrap heap.

A crunching of tin and a wailing of metal filled the night air, sending retro-rats and rust worms scurryng from their holes.Inwardly, Optimus chided himself; he had not meant to throw that hard.

There were scrabblings and grumblings as the trash was shoved to one side, before the thing stood up. Perfectly still, and with an eternalflicker of contempt to its optics, it was possessed of a tall, dark majesty that seeped from powerful arms and legs like mist. Sheathed in shadow, it was impossible to make out its shape, but its form was massive, and equipped with clawed hands that seemed big enough toenvelop the head of a normal mechanism.

With absolutely no noise whatsoever, Scavenger stepped forward.

He stopped, looked down and stared at his left foot. Then he gave Optimus a hard look.

"Whatever you called me back here for, Prime, it sure as slag better be better than what I just stepped in."

* * *

Cyclonus was going undercover. 

He was also going under threat of being both fusion cannoned and slowly kicked to death by some of the more militant Minicon groups under the Decepticon leader's command. This was why he was trying very, very hard to keep quiet.

(This was difficult, because Cyclonus had not yet learnt that it is hard to keep quiet when one is walking with a spring in one's step and whistling a merry tune. It felt _good_ to be doing something.)

Butthe quiet thing only applied for a little while longer. Once he had reached the designated site, his instructions were to be as loud and destructive as possible.

(Cyclonus grinned. He was okay with that.)

His job was simple; his mission was suicide; his cares were few. He was to be the designated distraction whilst Megatron and his New Best Friend (A.K.A creepy green guy, and what was with that _laugh_? Geez) set into motion whatever dark and intricate plans they had laid out. Cyclonus was not aware of what said plans were, beyond what he had deducted through snippets and whispers. He had, however, cottoned on to enough information to realize that he had been chosen as part of one of the most dangerous and devious Decepticon ploys of all time.

_Whee,_ he had thought.

(Although itwasn't really that much of a surprise. Seventy Cybertronian hours ago, he'd been evicted from the detention centre with supernatural speed, thrown up before Commander Megatron and told that they would be leaving for the biggest enemy base camp on the planet within the next vorn. Rust flakes could have picked up on the incongruities.)

The way he saw it, his options had become very limited very quickly. They included A.) become a hero, B.) die, C.) make a mistake and fail hugely, bringing shame upon them all and a world of pain upon himself. (And, apathetic to most of the universe as he was, that last one did give him a slight shiver, one that he would never admit to.) Either way, chances were good that, somewhere along the line, there would be destruction and mayhem and it would all be because of _him._

So. Whee.

With this goal firmly in mind, Cyclonus set his attention on not tripping over something and screwing things up entirely with an ill-timed squawk. The ancient pipeline stretched away ahead of him, squeaking and groaning with the tribulations of forgotten ages. Weapons glowing with heat on both arms, he moved into the dark.

* * *

And on the other side of both the spectrum and the city... 

Wrapped in a web of invisibility nettings, appointed to him bya loving and prudent creator, Thrust slunk through the streets of Iacon.

The tactician was quite beautiful when he moved within the net, ducking and shifting smoothly to avoid knocking against anything. It was a pity, therefore, that no one without an extremely advanced and well-tuned energy detector could have spotted him.

Invisibility was new technology. Like all new technology, it had its problems.

Air ripples were one. It wasn't too difficult for an alert Autobot to detect a shimmer were no shimmer should be. Asthis was known to be the only way to detect a nearby spy without proper equipment, Autobots were known to lunge gun-first at anything from heat-ripples to dust storms.

Other mechanisms were another. It took a bit of practise and some experience to realize that, when no one could see you, no one watched where they were going. If you weren't quick of wit and quicker on your feet, you were open to a world of new experiences; being mown down like cut organic fibres whenever an alarm rang; being peppered with bullets by some fool who'd just wanted to practise his aim on a neglected wall; being stepped on by a cityformer who hadn't seen you (although this was a hazard most had to endure, as cityformers, on those rare occasions when they had to move about, didn't often bother to check for any small, desperately scrabbling creatures beneath their feet.)

And then there was just accidentally knocking down someone with more brains than an eggcup. Invisibility shielding was, true, only a recent development, but word of it had spread like wildfire, fanned by superstitious myths and the far more practical concerns of those bases who had no time to waste on energy-signature detectors. If he did walk into an alert Autobot, chances were the generals would be alerted in minutes, and the entire city would be covered in a massive energy detector. He would be instantly noticed, instantly taken down and almost as instantly dragged in for interrogation.

Thrust looked around unconcernedly. He had had years of experience at avoiding the clumsy whims of creatures with more power than he. Gliding through a crowd without brushing the aura of another was a skill that had become a science.

Flying over the city and simply landing on the correct building was an impossibility, sadly. The invisible energy detection dome that encompassed the inner circle of Iacon was thin, but refined enough to pick up on anything without a big, shiny Autobot insignia tattooed upon every last inch of its frame. The heat from his jets would be more than enough to have every gun in the accursed city trained on his wings-and Thrust had never been prey to the desire to go down swinging. He intended to go down chuckling, in quiet but immense self-satisfaction.

His job was complicated; his mission was madness; his cares were many.

He had a feeling that this was going to earn him another promotion.

Shivering in delight at the thought, the youngest Decepticon tactician in over five hundred thousand years folded his wings as far back as they would go and glided, unseen, past the lingering rabble.

* * *

"I thought we agreed that I was going to lay low for a while." 

The ex-Decepticon, and, more recently, ex-mercenary's voice was muffled. This - sigh - was because of the robe.

He didn't know why Scavenger bothered with the robe. Scavenger didn't know why he bothered with the robe.

It was useless, the mercenary had muttered over a pint of high-grade one evening, trying to convince himself that it was for purposes of subterfuge. An Emperor Megatron-sized Decepticon is a difficult thing to conceal at the best of times; discretion is made only harder when said Decepticon has a huge piece of cloth wrapped around him. It is like putting a sheet over an elephant. You can still tell that it's an elephant. Worse, it's an elephant wearing a gods-damned sheet, which makes it a really_ weird_ elephant.

And arguing that it concealed his insignia didn't do much good, either. Most races no longer cared (if, indeed, they ever had) whether the giant, armed robot coming towards them was an Autobot or a Decepticon; generally, one would follow the other, and the inevitable result would be pending anarchy.

It had no use as a shield, it tended to impede his movements and, he had growled, throwing back another shot, it sure as krell didn't do anything for his looks.

Scavenger had stated that he refused to believe that he carted the thing around out of some dry, lingering trace of childish amusement, even if (he here had sniggered) it was funny to watch people's faces as they spoke to a fifty foot warrior clad in a circus tent. Prime, who had known the warrior for several years at that point, suspected that his friend and mentor was not being entirely truthful.

They clasped hands; neither went in for hugs, and nods weren't sufficient.

"Optimus, what have I told you about mmpgh-…", Scavenger began, then growled in irritation and pulled the cloth from his mouth. One of the numerous problems that comes with wearing a dramatically billowing cape every hour of the day is the tendency for it to get caught in the back of one's energon detection tubes. "Optimus, what have I told about feeding the retro-rats?"

"That they're vermin and I shouldn't?" queried Optimus, who was used to certain Decepticon-ish aspects of Scavenger's personality poking their heads through now and then.

"And the reason you never listen to me would be…?"

"They're small and helpless. I like them."

Inwardly, Scavenger sighed. He had no doubts that his adopted pupil would one day soar to the rank of chief lieutenant. His aspirations for the young mech extended even higher than that, into areas that Prime himself would probably consider blasphemous. But damned if the boy didn't have a head like a pound of stug.

(Stug was a slightly harder cousin of lead, once employed to make clubs in Decepticon training bases. Getting hit over the head with a club of stug would not kill you, but it would make you wish it could.)

"Whaddaya want?"

"How've you been?"

"Fine. Whaddaya want?"

Optimus chuckled and gave Scavenger's shoulder an affectionate rub. "You never change, do you?"

Scavenger was again reminded of why he had decided that he preferred Prime's company to that of his own race; had a member of his own race given him a pat, he would have been obliged to rip off one of their limbs.

"Heard you'd been made Base Commander."

Optimus have a surprised 'hmph'. "I always underestimate you, don't I?"

"Yup. How's the flyboy?"

"Jetfire's fine. I've made him Vice Base Commander."

Scavenger contemplated his claws, before grunting, "Could do worse. Now, whaddaya want? I've got an important client to meet with on planet Duke in five hours. No time to get arrested."

"Don't worry, security's very bad at the moment. I take it you've heard about Nexus?"

"Yup. Weird business."

"Actually, that was the reason I contacted you…"

By the time he had first met the hundred-year old neophyte that had been Optimus Prime, Scavenger had already lost every one of his illusions, found new ones and lost them, too. Meeting Optimus Prime, who not only maintained all his illusions, but seemed to create new ones every day, had been a... surprise.

He had loved the young soldier backthen-and still did, stug-head that he was-but he was firm on thebelief that deserting had had nothing to do with Prime and his ideals. It _had_ had a lot to do with what he thought about Prime and his ideals, which weren't the sort of thoughts any Decepticon had a right to have.

He put both arms above his head and stretched, inciting Optimus to wince at the cracking and squealing from his back.

"Prime, I haven't been anywhere near a Decepticon base for months. You know how this works; I go where I get contracted to go. Hardly anyone in either army contracts mercs these days. It's too dangerous. You never know whether the other side's also forkin' out the credits. Last time I heard anything from anyone was maybe three months ago and it prob'ly doesn't mean anything."

Optimus waited patiently.

Eventually, Scavenger made a heavy, exasperated noise, and scratched the back of his neck.

"I was in a bar. There was a 'Con. A seeker. Weird guy, kept talkin' to himself. He seemed to think that something big was going to happen. Wouldn't give me any details, no matter how many drinks I brought him. But he mentioned Iacon."

"...The attacks have taken place in Nexus", Prime said slowly.

"Yep, I know. Strange, that."

The two warriors regarded one another.

Optimus quietly spoke. "Scavenger…if something does happen here, what do I do?"

_Prime, I'm a soldier. I'm a deserter, too. What is it that makes you so sure that I have _any slagging clue _what to do if everything you love goes straight to slag? I wasn't built to answer these sort of questions. I was built to get up, shoot stuff for a while and then die in some low-key and unimportant way. Prime, surely you know that?_

Scavenger said, "Stay focused. If something goes wrong, you've got to know about it the minute it does. Don't panic. Don't let the men panic. Check out the routes the current patrols are taking and see if you can spread 'em out. Get Jetfire off his lazy aft and get him to check out the situation from the air. Whe-…If trouble happens, make sure you've got an open line to Nexus available; chances are good you're not going to able to handle it without backup. If something does go wrong, it's going to happen in the next ten hours. That's the maximum time the Decepticons at Nexus and Raff are going to be able to keep the distraction going-if that's what it is. And for slag's sake, don't leave Jetfire alone."

Optimus nodded.

They shook hands; Optimus gave his arm a squeeze.

"Be careful."

"I'm always careful. You're the one who gets himself stuck with entire cities when I turn my back."

Optimus laughed, although it was a weary sound. "I'll see you again soon?"

"Soon. I've got some business to finish up on Tarn. Should be over with in a few months. Don't get killed."

As the mercenary was preparing once more to slink off into the disgusting overgrowth that was the junkyard, Optimus said, "Scavenger. Have you given any thought to my suggestion?"

There was a pause, then a low, affirmative grunt.

"Yep. I've thought about it."

And he was gone.

Optimus stared at the space that his friend and one-time nemesis had occupied. Then he shook his head and headed back to Headquarters.


End file.
